MAJESTY

by

F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940)

Saturday Evening Post (13 July 1929)

The extraordinary thing is not that people in a lifetime turn
out worse or better than we had prophesied; particularly in
America that is to be expected. The extraordinary thing is how
people keep their levels, fulfill their promises, seem actually
buoyed up by an inevitable destiny.

One of my conceits is that no one has ever disappointed me
since I turned eighteen and could tell a real quality from a gift
for sleight of hand, and even many of the merely showy people in
my past seem to go on being blatantly and successfully showy to
the end.

Emily Castleton was born in Harrisburg in a medium-sized
house, moved to New York at sixteen to a big house, went to the
Briarly School, moved to an enormous house, moved to a mansion at
Tuxedo Park, moved abroad, where she did various fashionable
things and was in all the papers. Back in her debutante year one
of those French artists who are so dogmatic about American
beauties, included her with eleven other public and semipublic
celebrities as one of America's perfect types. At the time
numerous men agreed with him.

She was just faintly tall, with fine, rather large features,
eyes with such an expanse of blue in them that you were really
aware of it whenever you looked at her, and a good deal of thick
blond hair--arresting and bright. Her mother and father did not
know very much about the new world they had commandeered so Emily
had to learn everything for herself, and she became involved in
various situations and some of the first bloom wore off. However,
there was bloom to spare. There were engagements and
semi-engagements, short passionate attractions, and then a big
affair at twenty-two that embittered her and sent her wandering
the continents looking for happiness. She became "artistic" as
most wealthy unmarried girls do at that age, because artistic
people seem to have some secret, some inner refuge, some escape.
But most of her friends were married now, and her life was a
great disappointment to her father; so, at twenty-four, with
marriage in her head if not in her heart, Emily came home.

This was a low point in her career and Emily was aware of it.
She had not done well. She was one of the most popular, most
beautiful girls of her generation with charm, money and a sort of
fame, but her generation was moving into new fields. At the first
note of condescension from a former schoolmate, now a young
"matron," she went to Newport and was won by William Brevoort
Blair. Immediately she was again the incomparable Emily
Castleton. The ghost of the French artist walked once more in the
newspapers; the most-talked-of leisure-class event of October was
her wedding day.

Splendor to mark society nuptials. . . . Harold Castleton sets
out a series of five-thousand-dollar pavilions arranged like the
interconnecting tents of a circus, in which the reception, the
wedding supper and the ball will be held. . . . Nearly a thousand
guests, many of them leaders in business, will mingle with those
who dominate the social world. . . . The wedding gifts are
estimated to be worth a quarter of a million dollars. . . .

An hour before the ceremony, which was to be solemnized at St.
Bartholomew's, Emily sat before a dressing-table and gazed at her
face in the glass. She was a little tired of her face at that
moment and the depressing thought suddenly assailed her that it
would require more and more looking after in the next fifty
years.

"I ought to be happy," she said aloud, "but every thought that
comes into my head is sad."

Her cousin, Olive Mercy, sitting on the side of the bed,
nodded. "All brides are sad."

"It's such a waste," Emily said.

Olive frowned impatiently.

"Waste of what? Women are incomplete unless they're married
and have children."

For a moment Emily didn't answer. Then she said slowly, "Yes,
but whose children?"

For the first time in her life, Olive, who worshipped Emily,
almost hated her. Not a girl in the wedding party but would have
been glad of Brevoort Blair--Olive among the others.

"You're lucky," she said. "You're so lucky you don't even know
it. You ought to be paddled for talking like that."

"I shall learn to love him," announced Emily facetiously.
"Love will come with marriage. Now, isn't that a hell of a
prospect?"

"Why so deliberately unromantic?"

"On the contrary, I'm the most romantic person I've ever met
in my life. Do you know what I think when he puts his arms around
me? I think that if I look up I'll see Garland Kane's eyes."

"But why, then--"

"Getting into his plane the other day I could only remember
Captain Marchbanks and the little two-seater we flew over the
Channel in, just breaking our hearts for each other and never
saying a word about it because of his wife. I don't regret those
men; I just regret the part of me that went into caring. There's
only the sweepings to hand to Brevoort in a pink waste-basket.
There should have been something more; I thought even when I was
most carried away that I was saving something for the one. But
apparently I wasn't." She broke off and then added: "And yet I
wonder."

The situation was no less provoking to Olive for being
comprehensible, and save for her position as a poor relation, she
would have spoken her mind. Emily was well spoiled--eight years
of men had assured her they were not good enough for her and she
had accepted the fact as probably true.

"You're nervous." Olive tried to keep the annoyance out of her
voice. "Why not lie down for an hour?"

"Yes," answered Emily absently.

Olive went out and downstairs. In the lower hall she ran into
Brevoort Blair, attired in a nuptial cutaway even to the white
carnation, and in a state of considerable agitation.

"Oh, excuse me," he blurted out. "I wanted to see Emily. It's
about the rings--which ring, you know. I've got four rings and
she never decided and I can't just hold them out in the church
and have her take her pick."

"I happen to know she wants the plain platinum band. If you
want to see her anyhow--"

"Oh, thanks very much. I don't want to disturb her."

They were standing close together, and even at this moment
when he was gone, definitely preëmpted, Olive couldn't help
thinking how alike she and Brevoort were. Hair, coloring,
features--they might have been brother and sister--and they
shared the same shy serious temperaments, the same simple
straightforwardness. All this flashed through her mind in an
instant, with the added thought that the blond, tempestuous
Emily, with her vitality and amplitude of scale, was, after all,
better for him in every way; and then, beyond this, a perfect
wave of tenderness, of pure physical pity and yearning swept over
her and it seemed that she must step forward only half a foot to
find his arms wide to receive her.

She stepped backward instead, relinquishing him as though she
still touched him with the tip of her fingers and then drew the
tips away. Perhaps some vibration of her emotion fought its way
into his consciousness, for he said suddenly:

Silently, as he talked, she said good-by to him, the only man
she had ever wanted in her life.

She loved the absorbed hesitancy with which he found his coat
and hat and felt hopefully for the knob on the wrong side of the
door.

When he had gone she went into the drawing-room, gorgeous and
portentous; with its painted bacchanals and massive chandeliers
and the eighteenth-century portraits that might have been Emily's
ancestors, but weren't, and by that very fact belonged the more
to her. There she rested, as always, in Emily's shadow.

Through the door that led out to the small, priceless patch of
grass on Sixtieth Street now inclosed by the pavilions, came her
uncle, Mr. Harold Castleton. He had been sampling his own
champagne.

"Olive so sweet and fair." He cried emotionally, "Olive, baby,
she's done it. She was all right inside, like I knew all the
time. The good ones come through, don't they--the real
thoroughbreds? I began to think that the Lord and me, between us,
had given her too much, that she'd never be satisfied, but now
she's come down to earth just like a"--he searched unsuccessfully
for a metaphor--"like a thoroughbred, and she'll find it not such
a bad place after all." He came closer. "You've been crying,
little Olive."

Later, as she embarked with two other bridesmaids for the
church, the solemn throbbing of a big wedding seemed to begin
with the vibration of the car. At the door the organ took it up,
and later it would palpitate in the cellos and base viols of the
dance, to fade off finally with the sound of the car that bore
bride and groom away.

The crowd was thick around the church, and ten feet out of it
the air was heavy with perfume and faint clean humanity and the
fabric smell of new clean clothes. Beyond the massed hats in the
van of the church the two families sat in front rows on either
side. The Blairs--they were assured a family resemblance by their
expression of faint condescension, shared by their in-laws as
well as by true Blairs--were represented by the Gardiner Blairs,
senior and junior; Lady Mary Bowes Howard, née Blair; Mrs.
Potter Blair; Mrs. Princess Potowki Parr Blair, née
Inchbit; Miss Gloria Blair, Master Gardiner Blair III, and the
kindred branches, rich and poor, of Smythe, Bickle, Diffendorfer
and Hamn. Across the aisle the Castletons made a less impressive
showing--Mr. Harold Castleton, Mr. and Mrs. Theodore Castleton
and children, Harold Castleton Junior, and, from Harrisburg, Mr.
Carl Mercy, and two little old aunts named O'Keefe hidden off in
a corner. Somewhat to their surprise the two aunts had been
bundled off in a limousine and dressed from head to foot by a
fashionable couturière that morning.

In the vestry, where the bridesmaids fluttered about like
birds in their big floppy hats, there was a last lip rouging and
adjustment of pins before Emily should arrive. They represented
several stages of Emily's life--a schoolmate at Briarly, a last
unmarried friend of débutante year, a travelling companion
of Europe, and the girl she had visited in Newport when she met
Brevoort Blair.

"They've got Wakeman," this last one said, standing by the
door listening to the music. "He played for my sister, but I
shall never have Wakeman."

"Why not?"

"Why, he's playing the same thing over and over--'At Dawning.'
He's played it half a dozen times."

At this moment another door opened and the solicitous head of
a young man appeared around it. "Almost ready?" he demanded of
the nearest bridesmaid. "Brevoort's having a quiet little fit. He
just stands there wilting collar after collar--"

"Be calm," answered the young lady. "The bride is always a few
minutes late."

"A few minutes!" protested the best man. "I don't call it a
few minutes. They're beginning to rustle and wriggle like a
circus crowd out there, and the organist has been playing the
same tune for half an hour. I'm going to get him to fill in with
a little jazz."

"What time is it?" Olive demanded.

"Quarter of five--ten minutes of five."

"Maybe there's been a traffic tie-up." Olive paused as Mr.
Harold Castleton, followed by an anxious curate, shouldered his
way in, demanding a phone.

And now there began a curious dribbling back from the front of
the church, one by one, then two by two, until the vestry was
crowded with relatives and confusion.

"What's happened?"

"What on earth's the matter?"

A chauffeur came in and reported excitedly. Harold Castleton
swore and, his face blazing, fought his way roughly toward the
door. There was an attempt to clear the vestry, and then, as if
to balance the dribbling, a ripple of conversation commenced at
the rear of the church and began to drift up toward the altar,
growing louder and faster and more excited, mounting always,
bringing people to their feet, rising to a sort of subdued roar.
The announcement from the altar that the marriage had been
postponed was scarcely heard, for by that time everyone knew that
they were participating in a front-page scandal, that Brevoort
Blair had been left waiting at the altar and Emily Castleton had
run away.

II

There were a dozen reporters outside the Castleton house on
Sixtieth Street when Olive arrived, but in her absorption she
failed even to hear their questions; she wanted desperately to go
and comfort a certain man whom she must not approach, and as a
sort of substitute she sought her Uncle Harold. She entered
through the interconnecting five-thousand-dollar pavilions, where
caterers and servants still stood about in a respectful funereal
half-light, waiting for something to happen, amid trays of caviar
and turkey's breast and pyramided wedding cake. Upstairs, Olive
found her uncle sitting on a stool before Emily's dressing-table.
The articles of make-up spread before him, the repertoire of
feminine preparation in evidence about, made his singularly
inappropriate presence a symbol of the mad catastrophe.

"Oh, it's you." His voice was listless; he had aged in two
hours. Olive put her arm about his bowed shoulder.

"I'm so terribly sorry, Uncle Harold."

Suddenly a stream of profanity broke from him, died away, and
a single large tear welled slowly from one eye.

"I want to get my massage man," he said. "Tell McGregor to get
him." He drew a long broken sigh, like a child's breath after
crying, and Olive saw that his sleeves were covered with a dust
of powder from the dressing-table, as if he had been leaning
forward on it, weeping, in the reaction from his proud
champagne.

"There was a telegram," he muttered.

"It's somewhere."

And he added slowly,

"From now on you're my daughter."

"Oh, no, you mustn't say that!"

Unrolling the telegram, she read:

I can't make the grade I would feel like a fool either way but
this will be over sooner so damn sorry for you

EMILY

When Olive had summoned the masseur and posted a servant
outside her uncle's door, she went to the library, where a
confused secretary was trying to say nothing over an inquisitive
and persistent telephone.

"I'm so upset, Miss Mercy," he cried in a despairing treble.
"I do declare I'm so upset I have a frightful headache. I've
thought for half an hour I heard dance music from down
below."

Then it occurred to Olive that she, too, was becoming
hysterical; in the breaks of the street traffic a melody was
drifting up, distinct and clear:

"--Is she fair
Is she sweet
I don't care--cause
I can't compete--
Who's the--"

She ran quickly downstairs and through the drawing-room, the
tune growing louder in her ears. At the entrance of the first
pavilion she stopped in stupefaction.

To the music of a small but undoubtedly professional orchestra
a dozen young couples were moving about the canvas floor. At the
bar in the corner stood additional young men, and half a dozen of
the caterer's assistants were busily shaking cocktails and
opening champagne.

"Harold!" she called imperatively to one of the dancers.
"Harold!"

A tall young man of eighteen handed his partner to another and
came toward her.

"Hello, Olive. How did father take it?"

"Harold, what in the name of--"

"Emily's crazy," he said consolingly. "I always told you Emily
was crazy. Crazy as a loon. Always was."

"What's the idea of this?"

"This?" He looked around innocently. "Oh, these are just some
fellows that came down from Cambridge with me."

"But--dancing!"

"Well, nobody's dead, are they? I thought we might as well use
up some of this--"

"Tell them to go home," said Olive.

"Why? What on earth's the harm? These fellows came all the way
down from Cambridge--"

"It simply isn't dignified."

"But they don't care, Olive. One fellow's sister did the same
thing--only she did it the day after instead of the day before.
Lots of people do it nowadays."

Obviously he felt that no family could be disgraced by an
episode on such a magnificent scale, but he reluctantly yielded.
The abysmally depressed butler saw to the removal of the
champagne, and the young people, somewhat insulted, moved
nonchalantly out into the more tolerant night. Alone with the
shadow--Emily's shadow--that hung over the house, Olive sat down
in the drawing-room to think. Simultaneously the butler appeared
in the doorway.

"It's Mr. Blair, Miss Olive."

She jumped tensely to her feet.

"Who does he want to see?"

"He didn't say. He just walked in."

"Tell him I'm in here."

He entered with an air of abstraction rather than depression,
nodded to Olive and sat down on a piano stool. She wanted to say,
"Come here. Lay your head here, poor man. Never mind." But she
wanted to cry, too, and so she said nothing.

"In three hours," he remarked quietly, "we'll be able to get
the morning papers. There's a shop on Fifty-ninth Street."

"That's foolish--" she began.

"I am not a superficial man"--he interrupted
her--"nevertheless, my chief feeling now is for the morning
papers. Later there will be a politely silent gauntlet of
relatives, friends and business acquaintances. About the actual
affair I surprise myself by not caring at all."

"Blows over." He laughed. "Things like this don't ever blow
over. A little snicker is going to follow me around the rest of
my life." He groaned. "Uncle Hamilton started right for Park Row
to make the rounds of the newspaper offices. He's a Virginian and
he was unwise enough to use the old-fashioned word 'horsewhip' to
one editor. I can hardly wait to see that paper." He broke
off. "How is Mr. Castleton?"

"He'll appreciate your coming to inquire."

"I didn't come about that." He hesitated. "I came to ask you a
question. I want to know if you'll marry me in Greenwich tomorrow
morning."

For a minute Olive fell precipitately through space; she made
a strange little sound; her mouth dropped ajar.

"I know you like me," he went on quickly. "In fact, I once
imagined you loved me a little bit, if you'll excuse the
presumption. Anyhow, you're very like a girl that once did love
me, so maybe you would--" His face was pink with embarrassment,
but he struggled grimly on; "anyhow, I like you enormously and
whatever feeling I may have had for Emily has, I might say,
flown."

The clangor and alarm inside her was so loud that it seemed he
must hear it.

"The favor you'll be doing me will be very great," he
continued. "My heavens, I know it sounds a little crazy, but what
could be crazier than the whole afternoon? You see, if you
married me the papers would carry quite a different story; they'd
think that Emily went off to get out of our way, and the joke
would be on her after all."

Tears of indignation came to Olive's eyes.

"I suppose I ought to allow for your wounded egotism, but do
you realize you're making me an insulting proposition?"

His face fell.

"I'm sorry," he said after a moment. "I guess I was an awful
fool even to think of it, but a man hates to lose the whole
dignity of his life for a girl's whim. I see it would be
impossible. I'm sorry."

He got up and picked up his cane.

Now he was moving toward the door, and Olive's heart came into
her throat and a great, irresistible wave of self-preservation
swept over her--swept over all her scruples and her pride. His
steps sounded in the hall.

"Brevoort!" she called. She jumped to her feet and ran to the
door. He turned. "Brevoort, what was the name of that paper--the
one your uncle went to?"

"Why?"

"Because it's not too late for them to change their story if I
telephone now! I'll say we were married tonight!"

III

There is a society in Paris which is merely a heterogeneous
prolongation of American society. People moving in are connected
by a hundred threads to the motherland, and their entertainments,
eccentricities and ups and downs are an open book to friends and
relatives at Southampton, Lake Forest or Back Bay. So during her
previous European sojourn Emily's whereabouts, as she followed
the shifting Continental seasons, were publicly advertised; but
from the day, one month after the unsolemnized wedding, when she
sailed from New York, she dropped completely from sight. There
was an occasional letter for her father, an occasional rumor that
she was in Cairo, Constantinople or the less frequented
Riviera--that was all.

Once, after a year, Mr. Castleton saw her in Paris, but, as he
told Olive, the meeting only served to make him
uncomfortable.

"There was something about her," he said vaguely, "as
if--well, as if she had a lot of things in the back of her mind I
couldn't reach. She was nice enough, but it was all automatic and
formal.--She asked about you."

Despite her solid background of a three-month-old baby and a
beautiful apartment on Park Avenue, Olive felt her heart falter
uncertainly.

"What did she say?"

"She was delighted about you and Brevoort." And he added to
himself, with a disappointment he could not conceal: "Even though
you picked up the best match in New York when she threw it away."
. . .

. . . It was more than a year after this that his secretary's
voice on the telephone asked Olive if Mr. Castleton could see
them that night. They found the old man walking his library in a
state of agitation.

"Well, it's come," he declared vehemently. "People won't stand
still; nobody stands still. You go up or down in this world.
Emily chose to go down. She seems to be somewhere near the
bottom. Did you ever hear of a man described to me as a"--he
referred to a letter in his hand--"dissipated ne'er-do-well named
Petrocobesco? He calls himself Prince Gabriel Petrocobesco,
apparently from--from nowhere. This letter is from Hallam, my
European man, and it incloses a clipping from the Paris
Matin. It seems that this gentleman was invited by the
police to leave Paris, and among the small entourage who left
with him was an American girl, Miss Castleton, 'rumored to be the
daughter of a millionaire.' The party was escorted to the station
by gendarmes." He handed clipping and letter to Brevoort Blair
with trembling fingers. "What do you make of it? Emily come to
that!"

"It's not so good," said Brevoort, frowning.

"It's the end. I thought her drafts were big recently, but I
never suspected that she was supporting--"

"It may be a mistake," Olive suggested. "Perhaps it's another
Miss Castleton."

"It's Emily all right. Hallam looked up the matter. It's
Emily, who was afraid ever to dive into the nice clean stream of
life and ends up now by swimming around in the sewers."

Shocked, Olive had a sudden sharp taste of fate in its
ultimate diversity. She with a mansion building in Westbury
Hills, and Emily was mixed up with a deported adventurer in
disgraceful scandal.

"I've got no right to ask you this," continued Mr. Castleton.
"Certainly no right to ask Brevoort anything in connection with
Emily. But I'm seventy-two and Fraser says if I put off the cure
another fortnight he won't be responsible, and then Emily will be
alone for good. I want you to set your trip abroad forward by two
months and go over and bring her back."

"But do you think we'd have the necessary influence?" Brevoort
asked. "I've no reason for thinking that she'd listen to me."

"There's no one else. If you can't go I'll have to."

"Oh, no," said Brevoort quickly. "We'll do what we can, won't
we, Olive?"

"Of course."

"Bring her back--it doesn't matter how--but bring her back. Go
before a court if necessary and swear she's crazy."

"Very well. We'll do what we can."

Just ten days after this interview the Brevoort Blairs called
on Mr. Castleton's agent in Paris to glean what details were
available. They were plentiful but unsatisfactory. Hallam had
seen Petrocobesco in various restaurants--a fat little fellow
with an attractive leer and a quenchless thirst. He was of some
obscure nationality and had been moved around Europe for several
years, living heaven knew how--probably on Americans, though
Hallam understood that of late even the most outlying circles of
international society were closed to him. About Emily, Hallam
knew very little. They had been reported last week in Berlin and
yesterday in Budapest. It was probably that such an undesirable
as Petrocobesco was required to register with the police
everywhere, and this was the line he recommended the Blairs to
follow.

Forty-eight hours later, accompanied by the American vice
consul, they called upon the prefect of police in Budapest. The
officer talked in rapid Hungarian to the vice consul, who
presently announced the gist of his remarks--the Blairs were too
late.

"Where have they gone?"

"He doesn't know. He received orders to move them on and they
left last night."

Suddenly the prefect wrote something on a piece of paper and
handed it, with a terse remark, to the vice consul.

"He says try there."

Brevoort looked at the paper.

"Sturmdorp--where's that?"

Another rapid conversation in Hungarian.

"Five hours from here on a local train that leaves Tuesdays
and Fridays. This is Saturday."

"We'll get a car at the hotel," said Brevoort.

They set out after dinner. It was a rough journey through the
night across the still Hungarian plain. Olive awoke once from a
worried doze to find Brevoort and the chauffeur changing a tire;
then again as they stopped at a muddy little river, beyond which
glowed the scattered lights of a town. Two soldiers in an
unfamiliar uniform glanced into the car; they crossed a bridge
and followed a narrow, warped main street to Sturmdorp's single
inn; the roosters were already crowing as they tumbled down on
the mean beds.

Olive awoke with a sudden sure feeling that they had caught up
with Emily; and with it came that old sense of helplessness in
the face of Emily's moods; for a moment the long past and Emily
dominant in it, swept back over her, and it seemed almost a
presumption to be here. But Brevoort's singleness of purpose
reassured her and confidence had returned when they went
downstairs, to find a landlord who spoke fluent American,
acquired in Chicago before the war.

"You are not in Hungary now," he explained. "You have crossed
the border into Czjeck-Hansa. But it is only a little country
with two towns, this one and the capital. We don't ask the visa
from Americans."

"That's probably why they came here," Olive thought.

"Perhaps you could give us some information about strangers?"
asked Brevoort. "We're looking for an American lady--" He
described Emily, without mentioning her probable companion; as he
proceeded a curious change came over the innkeeper's face.

"Let me see your passports," he said; then: "And why you want
to see her?"

"This lady is her cousin."

The innkeeper hesitated momentarily.

"I think perhaps I be able to find her for you," he said.

He called the porter; there were rapid instructions in an
unintelligible patois. Then:

"Follow this boy--he take you there."

They were conducted through filthy streets to a tumble-down
house on the edge of town. A man with a hunting rifle, lounging
outside, straightened up and spoke sharply to the porter, but
after an exchange of phrases they passed, mounted the stairs and
knocked at a door. When it opened a head peered around the
corner; the porter spoke again and they went in.

They were in a large dirty room which might have belonged to a
poor boarding house in any quarter of the Western world--faded
walls, split upholstery, a shapeless bed and an air, despite its
bareness, of being overcrowded by the ghostly furniture,
indicated by dust rings and worn spots, of the last decade. In
the middle of the room stood a small stout man with hammock eyes
and a peering nose over a sweet, spoiled little mouth, who stared
intently at them as they opened the door, and then with a single
disgusted "Chut!" turned impatiently away. There were several
other people in the room, but Brevoort and Olive saw only Emily,
who reclined in a chaise longue with half-closed eyes.

At the sight of them the eyes opened in mild astonishment; she
made a move as though to jump up, but instead held out her hand,
smiled and spoke their names in a clear polite voice, less as a
greeting than as a sort of explanation to the others of their
presence here. At their names a grudging amenity replaced the
sullenness on the little man's face.

The girls kissed.

"Tutu!" said Emily, as if calling him to attention--"Prince
Petrocobesco, let me present my cousin Mrs. Blair, and Mr.
Blair."

"Plaisir," said Petrocobesco. He and Emily exchanged a
quick glance, whereupon he said, "Won't you sit down?" and
immediately seated himself in the only available chair, as if
they were playing Going to Jerusalem.

"Plaisir," he repeated. Olive sat down on the foot of
Emily's chaise longue and Brevoort took a stool from against the
wall, meanwhile noting the other occupants of the room. There was
a very fierce young man in a cape who stood, with arms folded and
teeth gleaming, by the door, and two ragged, bearded men, one
holding a revolver, the other with his head sunk dejectedly on
his chest, who sat side by side in the corner.

"You come here long?" the prince asked.

"Just arrived this morning."

For a moment Olive could not resist comparing the two, the
tall fair-featured American and the unprepossessing South
European, scarcely a likely candidate for Ellis Island. Then she
looked at Emily--the same thick bright hair with sunshine in it,
the eyes with the hint of vivid seas. Her face was faintly drawn,
there were slight new lines around her mouth, but she was the
Emily of old--dominant, shining, large of scale. It seemed
shameful for all that beauty and personality to have arrived in a
cheap boarding house at the world's end.

The man in the cape answered a knock at the door and handed a
note to Petrocobesco, who read it, cried "Chut!" and
passed it to Emily.

"You see, there are no carriages," he said tragically in
French. "The carriages were destroyed--all except one, which is
in a museum. Anyhow, I prefer a horse."

"No," said Emily.

"Yes, yes, yes!" he cried. "Whose business is it how I
go?"

"Don't let's have a scene, Tutu."

"Scene!" He fumed. "Scene!"

Emily turned to Olive: "You came by automobile?"

"Yes."

"A big de luxe car? With a back that opens?"

"Yes."

"There," said Emily to the prince. "We can have the arms
painted on the side of that."

"Hold on," said Brevoort. "This car belongs to a hotel in
Budapest."

Apparently Emily didn't hear.

"Janierka could do it," she continued thoughtfully.

At this point there was another interruption. The dejected man
in the corner suddenly sprang to his feet and made as though to
run to the door, whereupon the other man raised his revolver and
brought the butt down on his head. The man faltered and would
have collapsed had not his assailant hauled him back to the
chair, where he sat comatose, a slow stream of blood trickling
over his forehead.

"Now that's just the kind of remark you're not to make!" said
Emily sharply.

"Then why we don't hear?" he cried. "Are we going to sit here
in this pigsty forever?"

Disregarding him, Emily turned to Olive and began to question
her conventionally about New York. Was prohibition any more
successful? What were the new plays? Olive tried to answer and
simultaneously to catch Brevoort's eye. The sooner their purpose
was broached, the sooner they could get Emily away.

"Can we see you alone, Emily?" demanded Brevoort abruptly.

"Why, for the moment we haven't got another room."

Petrocobesco had engaged the man with the cape in agitated
conversation, and taking advantage of this, Brevoort spoke
hurriedly to Emily in a lowered voice:

"Emily, your father's getting old; he needs you at home. He
wants you to give up this crazy life and come back to America. He
sent us because he couldn't come himself and no one else knew you
well enough--"

She laughed. "You mean, knew the enormities I was capable
of."

"No," put in Olive quickly. "Cared for you as we do. I can't
tell you how awful it is to see you wandering over the face of
the earth."

"It's all right, Tutu." Her voice was soft now, almost
crooning. "Sit up. Be a man."

"All right."

He crossed his legs as if nothing had happened and turned
abruptly to Breevort:

"How are financial conditions in New York?" he demanded.

But Brevoort was in no humor to prolong the absurd scene. The
memory of a certain terrible hour three years before swept over
him. He was no man to be made a fool of twice, and his jaw set as
he rose to his feet.

Emily did not move; an expression of astonishment, melting to
amusement, spread over her face. Olive put her arm around her
shoulder.

"Come, dear. Let's get out of this nightmare." Then:

"We're waiting," Brevoort said.

Petrocobesco spoke suddenly to the man in the cape, who
approached and seized Brevoort's arm. Brevoort shook him off
angrily, whereupon the man stepped back, his hand searching his
belt.

"No!" cried Emily imperatively.

Once again there was an interruption. The door opened without
a knock and two stout men in frock coats and silk hats rushed in
and up to Petrocobesco. They grinned and patted him on the back
chattering in a strange language, and presently he grinned and
patted them on the back and they kissed all around; then, turning
to Emily, Petrocobesco spoke to her in French.

"It's all right," he said excitedly. "They did not even argue
the matter. I am to have the title of king."

With a long sigh Emily sank back in her chair and her lips
parted in a relaxed, tranquil smile.

"Very well, Tutu. We'll get married."

"Oh, heavens, how happy!" He clasped his hands and gazed up
ecstatically at the faded ceiling. "How extremely happy!" He fell
on his knees beside her and kissed her inside arm.

"What's all this about kings?" Brevoort demanded. "Is this--is
he a king?"

"His uncle was Prince of Czjeck-Hansa before the war,"
explained Emily, her voice singing her content. "Since then
there's been a republic, but the peasant party wanted a change
and Tutu was next in line. Only I wouldn't marry him unless he
insisted on being king instead of prince."

Brevoort passed his hand over his wet forehead.

"Do you mean that this is actually a fact?"

Emily nodded. "The assembly voted it this morning. And if
you'll lend us this de luxe limousine of yours we'll make our
official entrance into the capital this afternoon."

IV

Over two years later Mr. and Mrs. Brevoort Blair and their two
children stood upon a balcony of the Carlton Hotel in London, a
situation recommended by the management for watching royal
processions pass. This one began with a fanfare of trumpets down
by the Strand, and presently a scarlet line of horse guards came
into sight.

"No, dear; she's queen of a little tiny country, but when she
visits here she rides in the queen's carriage."

"Oh."

"Thanks to the magnesium deposits," said Brevoort dryly.

"Was she a princess before she got to be queen?" the little
girl asked.

"No, dear; she was an American girl and then she got to be a
queen."

"Why?"

"Because nothing else was good enough for her," said her
father. "Just think, one time she could have married me. Which
would you rather do, baby--marry me or be a queen?"

The little girl hesitated.

"Marry you," she said politely, but without conviction.

"That'll do, Brevoort," said her mother. "Here they come."

"I see them!" the little boy cried.

The cavalcade swept down the crowded street. There were more
horse guards, a company of dragoons, outriders, then Olive found
herself holding her breath and squeezing the balcony rail as,
between a double line of beefeaters, a pair of great
gilt-and-crimson coaches rolled past. In the first were the royal
sovereigns, their uniforms gleaming with ribbons, crosses and
stars, and in the second their two royal consorts, one old, the
other young. There was about the scene the glamour shed always by
the old empire of half the world, by her ships and ceremonies,
her pomps and symbols; and the crowd felt it, and a slow murmur
rolled along before the carriage, rising to a strong steady
cheer. The two ladies bowed to left and right, and though few
knew who the second queen was, she was cheered too. In a moment
the gorgeous panoply had rolled below the balcony and on out of
sight.

When Olive turned away from the window there were tears in her
eyes.

"I wonder if she likes it, Brevoort. I wonder if she's really
happy with that terrible little man."

"Well, she got what she wanted, didn't she? And that's
something."

Olive drew a long breath.

"Oh, she's so wonderful," she cried--"so wonderful! She could
always move me like that, even when I was angriest at her."

"It's all so silly," Brevoort said.

"I suppose so," answered Olive's lips. But her heart, winged
with helpless adoration, was following her cousin through the
palace gates half a mile away.